


i'm just a lost boy

by belljar



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Other, it sux 2 be dead pals....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belljar/pseuds/belljar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah is tired. Tired of being dead, of being incorporeal, of being—this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm just a lost boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jasontdd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasontdd/gifts).



> a small noah-centric piece for [jemma](http://alrightlupin.tumblr.com/)!!! i hope you like it, i love you lots. 
> 
> unbetaed // character belongs to maggie stiefvater // title from lost boy by troye sivan

Noah is tired. Tired of being dead, of being incorporeal, of being— _this_. Of being a fucking _ghost_ , however that works. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be real. He means, he’s believed in all kinds of things – ley lines, weird supernatural spots, unicorns or whatever – but _ghosts_ —ghosts are supposed to just be folklore, or a myth. Or maybe they’re supposed to be real, but _he’s_ not supposed to be one.

A ton of people would probably be thrilled waking up as a ghost, discovering that you’re not _really_ dead after all; that you get a second chance. Noah’s never been super into second chances and this whole ghost business fucking _sucks_.

First of all, only about one per cent of the population can actually see you. Noah thinks back to that time he was hanging out in the skate park and his sisters were there; except only his youngest sister could actually see him. She ran towards him, screaming, wrapping her tiny arms around him in a tight hug, and he hugged her back, and forced himself to not start crying.

‘Noah, Noah, Noah,’ she’d said, over and over again, the miss in her voice so heavy and _there_ Noah almost gave up and let the tears fall.

And Mariah—he can still hear her voice, how she told her to _stop_ , Noah isn’t _here_ , he’s _dead_ , stop pretending, stop faking, stop—stop _doing this_.

Being right there – right _there_ – and looking at your own family, close enough to reach out and touch, but them not being able to see you, _feel_ you— _God_ , he doesn’t even have words. Really, this whole being a ghost thing does not mean a second chance; it just means you get to watch your loved ones up close, watch them move on, watch them— _watch them_ , but not be able to talk with them.

Because you’re dead, so of _course; y_ ou can’t talk with the dead. Being incorporeal means being stuck in this hellish plane with no escape; every perk people think it includes isn’t actually real. It’s not a second chance. And you might not be _really_ dead—but you’re also not alive, so it makes no difference. Being _alive_ , or being _dead_ – that’s how it’s supposed to be. This middle thing is _awful_.

Being alive might suck and being dead might not be more desirable, but _this_ —fuck that.

Anyway, second of all: he can feel himself fading. He thinks: I was _more_ when I was alive, and by _more_ he means—

He used to go to parties, and throw parties; he used to make out with girls, and boys, and other kids that had ditched gender in favour of something else; like how to give a great blowjob, or wing your eyeliner perfectly. He’d get high, and skip classes, and skinny dip down the lake at two am.

He’d skate, too; he still does sometimes, when it’s in the middle of the night and there’s nobody else in the park. That’s not the same – it’s _never_ the same – because going to the skate park isn’t just about _skating_ ; it’s as much the social aspect, sitting in a circle on the ground and drinking lukewarm coke and laughing at bad jokes, trying each other’s snapbacks, taking terrible selfies, and doing awful, reckless stunts on a _dare_. There’s nobody to dare you when you’re alone. It’s not the _same_ when you’re _alone_.

He’s so fucking _tired_.

The fact that he was _more_ when he was alive obviously means he’s _less_ when he’s dead. That’s the only logical conclusion; that’s how antonyms _work_.

The others don’t—they actually haven’t realised, he doesn’t think. He hasn’t kept it a secret – _I’ve been dead for seven years_ – but he doesn’t think they _know_. Which is odd, he assumes, because none of them are actually oblivious. He can read their _thoughts_ ; he knows Gansey _knows_ he’s not got long left, he knows Ronan is struggling with _things_ , and Adam—nothing has ever really escaped Adam.

Except this, it’d seem. Maybe he’s just not important, or something. Maybe they just—whatever, who’d pick up on their friend being a ghost anyway? Because ghosts aren’t supposed to exist, so it’s not _surprising_ they haven’t picked up on it; people don’t normally go around asking if their friends are _really_ alive, or actually ghosts stuck in this realm of existence. Because normally, your friends are really alive. They’re as alive, and real, and _whole_ as you are. They’re not something— _less_.

Noah is something less now, and he’s tired of it.

He loves his friends, he _does_ , so it’s not—like, he didn’t have them when he was alive. He hung out with other kids; one of which really ended up _murdering_ him. He loves them, and if he’d just died and stayed dead, he would never have met them. So maybe that makes it all OK, maybe that makes it all worth it. But, like—if he’d just died and stayed dead, he wouldn’t have _met_ them so he wouldn’t have grown to _love_ them, so—so it’s not worth it, or whatever. Being a ghost still sucks.

He’s tired. He wants the whole world to just stop for a little while and let him rest.

And isn’t that a joke, really? He’s a ghost for God’s sake, he’s got no responsibilities, no places to be, no people to meet. Nobody can _see_ him. Why does he want to rest and not worry, when he actually doesn’t have anything to worry about, at all? He’s—all he has is _time_. Time to rest and not worry, time to—whatever.

Whatever, whatever, whatever. It’s not like anything matters anyway, ‘cause he’s fucking _dead_. There, isn’t that—isn’t that what all this hell and exhaustion boils down to, really? Isn’t that _it_?

He’s fucking _dead_ and he has to deal with that. He has to _live_ with that. It’s tiring: decaying. He figures, maybe he doesn’t just want a break to get some rest and not worry; maybe he wants a way _out_ , maybe he wants—an end. But there’s no end, because death’s supposed to be the end and he’s already dead, but still _here_. Stuck here until—he realises he doesn’t actually know how long he’s stuck here, how long this is supposed to go on for, how long— _God_ , are we talking eternity? Does he have to haunt this trash town for the rest of _eternity_?

He sure as hell hopes not. It already sucks, it’s already the most tiring thing in the world, but if—but if there’s no end in sight, _ever_ , then—that thought’s not even close to bearable. This has to end, at some point. This _has_ to end.


End file.
